


The Journalist

by lettalady



Series: The Journalist [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You met Tom in an interview and did your best to resist his charms. It only worked for a little while, then the pair of you started dating. A journalist and an actor. The relationship was probably doomed before the pair of you even considered dating but you’d gone for it anyway. Who can say no to those gorgeous blue eyes? It’s when they turn on you in anger that problems occur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It started as a drabble - something written to purge it from my system. Angry!Tom was shouting in my head, angry over having to perform another trick, do another dance. This story is the result.

“You. Want. A. Story.” Tom rolls his head back to look at the ceiling before snapping it forward again for the delivery of the fourth and final word.

He’d walked in the door a little stiff and you thought that you could cheer him by distracting him with his newfound favorite thing – reinventing segments of Shakespeare with you. It had worked in the past – the pair of you had had a blast modernizing select scenes from Twelfth Night. Your love of it stemmed from the fact that he was so turned on by the process. He certainly loves his Shakespeare, this one. Your thoughts for the evening are no longer on making it to the bedroom, unless it is to somehow barricade yourself in.

What had happened during the day to incite such anger?

And why had a simple playful request triggered it?

 He snarls, “You always want a story, want _something_. Want. Want. WANT.” You’re backing steadily away from him. No sudden movements or he might pounce. He has you on size and muscle mass, no contest. “Let me tell you what I _want._ I want you _out of my house!_ ”

This makes you pause your retreat. What? He’s throwing you out? “What? Tom?”

What had happened today?!

You have your hands held up in front of you, your palms facing him as an ineffective barrier to the words. Your confusion and submissive behavior does nothing to deplete the anger he’s exuding. You’ve never seen him like this, not even when he was supposed to be summoning up such rage for a character.

“Tom, I don’t understand.” Rather than continue to storm closer to you he bypasses you entirely to walk into the bedroom the pair of you have shared for nearly a year now.

He starts banging around in the room. It takes you a second to build up the courage to peek through the doorway to find him going through the dresser drawers, pulling clothing out. He tosses pieces over his shoulder without watching where they fall… onto the floor, onto the bed. They’re all your things. Mostly your things, at any rate. He’s too mad to notice that he’s picked up and tossed one or two of his own belongings.

“Journalist.” He spits the word out. “I knew better. _I knew better_ than to get involved with a _journalist._ ”

He hates your profession now? The very reason you even know each other? He doesn’t pause throwing things when you take a brave breath and step into the room. “Tom? What’s going on?”

“I can’t even look at you right now.” He hisses at you. The piece of clothing he had in his hands comes hurling at you, whapping into your chest. You cling to it so it doesn’t fall to the ground. You have a second to discover the thing in your arms is a shirt before something else comes hurtling at you and you are forced to drop the shirt to catch the next article of clothing.

“I don’t understand.” You let the lacy bit of clothing fall to the floor to join the rest of your wardrobe. He’s making quite a mess of your things, but you can’t worry about that right now. “Tom! Talk to me! Stop… stop whatever this is.” Another something gets thrown at you and you bat it down to join the rest of the items on the floor. You raise your voice to break through his muttering, “Stop throwing things!”

He listens, to your amazement, holding a t-shirt loosely between the fingers of his left hand. You’ve always loved the way his fingers curl into fabric. His costumes, the bedsheets... It takes effort to keep your eyes from drifting to the bed as the thought occurs.

Everything about him always seemed so graceful… though maybe not in this moment. Right now he’s all jerky movements and ragged breaths. “You want to understand? Where is your _mobile_?”

“What?”

“YOUR PHONE?!”

If he hadn’t thrown clothing all over the room maybe you’d be able to find it faster. “It’s um… it should be in my bag.” You spot your bag near the bed. You have to bypass Tom to get to it. He doesn’t budge and the anger you feel radiating off him when you squeeze past him makes you flinch away.

Your phone isn’t there. “It’s... oh fuck I left it at work.” Out on your desk. And you haven’t gone in for two days, finally taking the vacation time you’d been amassing ever since starting at the magazine.

You slowly turn back to face Tom. If it’s possible he looks even angrier than he had been when he first came home and started shouting. “I’ve been getting calls. _All. Day._ To my _unlisted_ number.”

Oh. Fuck.

His number was out there now. Someone had unlocked your phone – how hard was that these days, after all – and … Oh. Your eyes widen. The _photos!_

“Yes. She gets it now.” He swivels and turns to head to the closet to continue his rampage.

You can’t quite catch your breath as you sink down onto the bed. It is part of life in this technologically intense age – forgetting your phone somewhere isn’t something unusual. Sometimes things are just forgotten in the rush of things, or misplaced. You'd left it right beside your keyboard - it's usual home. You'd been so excited about finally taking a few days...

Your phone had been locked so it shouldn’t have mattered, but the fact that you were dating Tom Hiddleston… well obviously someone amongst your coworkers found it too tempting to just let the opportunity pass them by. All it took was the right code to gain access to Tom’s unlisted number. From there they had probably clicked to scroll through the texts exchanged… and therein found the photos.

The photos! Oh - the photos.

It was stupid to keep them on your phone. You knew better. You should have deleted them immediately after receiving them. You usually did. Even after deleting them a truly digitally savvy person could track them down. Once things like that are out there, they’re out there. The both of you may be consenting adults but that won’t do a thing to repair the damage the lewd photos will cause to his character and status.

“Oh God, Tom.”

He spins on you, “Don’t. Don’t use that tone. Don’t even think about trying to apologize. Get out.” He takes a step towards the bed before shouting again because you haven’t moved. “Get out. Get out. I said get out!”

You’re undoubtedly going to lose your job over this. What magazine will trust sensitive data to someone who is involved in such a breach? And you’ve clearly lost Tom. You can feel the prickle of tears starting to burn at your eyes. You fight against the surge of emotion. He’s so angry now his face is fully transformed into a sneer of disgust.

You’ve lost nearly everything else – you won’t lose your dignity as you flee from his anger. You _won’t_ cry. You scoop up your bag from the spot where you’d dropped it and hurry towards the door. The clothes? He can burn them, if he chooses. 

Where the hell are you going to go?

The sound of him digging about in the closet, the noise of hangers knocking together as he pulls clothing out, stops you. You haven't quite made it to the doorway to the bedroom. Your brain has finally had time to process through the shock of the moment and is finally starting the process of responding. He’s angry about the loss of privacy – ok – but honestly… while embarrassing to have them leaked the photos just showed him as human. A very well endowed human at that. Hell his attire sometimes showed more than certain photos that had been on your phone.

You wipe the beginnings of tears from your eyes and drop your bag with a loud thump. The noise brings his attention around to find you turning back around to face the bedroom, to face him.

“I said _get out!_ ” He roars. The armful of clothing, hangers and all, come flying through the room in your direction.

“No!” The mass of dresses and shirts land just at your feet, falling short of his target. You bend down to pick up the top thing on the pile and the hanger falls free – it’s a favorite shirt of yours – a soft something by a band the pair of you had gone to see together. You toss it at his head, causing him to duck to avoid it. “Stop. Throwing. Shit. At. Me! It’s just photos!”

You’ve seen it before with celebrities, they issue a public statement about the incident and then everything breezes over. It sometimes takes a little while but it breezes over. People like being reminded that celebrities are human, too.

You snag yourself on a hanger jutting out from the pile as you step forward, saving the stumble by scooping up something from the floor. It happens to be a stocking and strap sans garter belt, something you yourself have been photographed in for the exchange of pictures. You shake it at him before throwing it at his head, as well. “It’s _just_ _photos,_ and we’ll get you a new fucking number.”

Even mostly catching the stocking, part of it hits him. The silky fabric drapes across his neck and over the opposing shoulder. You watch as he reaches up to grasp the material, curling his fingers down one by one until the stocking is clutched in his hand so he can rip it away. To your surprise it doesn’t come flying back at you. Nor does he toss it aside, but lets it rest in his hand. Is this progress?

“That’s right. Spin the story. Dance little journalist. Dance.”

That’s a no on progress.

“Oh GOD you can be such an asshole! I didn’t send out the pictures, Tom! Just left my _locked_ phone at work!” Your eyes stray down from his face before you force them back up again. Damn his proclivity for wearing tight clothing. “Like you have _anything_ to be embarrassed about anyway. You’re probably getting cheers.”

Why are you standing here arguing with him? You’re invested. You love him. But if he’s willing to throw you out over this how much can he really love you in return? Well fuck him. Fuck him and his beautiful fucking face.

You throw up your hands in the air, “You know what? _FINE_ – hate me. Blame me. This is _bullshit_ , Tom.”

Fuck it all, you’ve started to cry.  

Leave. Leave quickly. You spin again and grab your bag. It doesn’t matter what he’s yelling at you now. You’ll find someone else. It’ll hurt for a while but you’ll get over him. You’ll survive dear monsieur Hiddleston. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It started out with Tom shouting. You'd forgotten your phone at work and someone had hacked it - leaking Tom's private number and a number of explicit photos shared between the pair of you to the public. It had come as a complete shock when he'd thrown you out. You're still reeling from the events._

You’ve put off going back in to work as long as possible. You’d asked for a full week of vacation after all. Watch, you’ll walk in and they’ll hand you a box full of your things from your desk. It’s not like you’d given them the contact information regarding your hotel. Hopefully they realized that with your phone still at the office they’d need to email you to get in contact. The hotel did have computers made available for guests so you had that line of communication uncut.

You take the stairs rather than suffer through the awkwardness of the confined space of the elevator. It appears the entire floor was waiting your arrival. The whispers start almost immediately. One look at your boss and you’re pretty much certain – you no longer have a job at the magazine.

Hopefully the person that hacked your phone lost their job too? They were the ones that had caused the close scrutiny of the magazine, really. But then the magazine was probably enjoying a spike in readership so – oh no what if they were being rewarded? The thought makes you a little nauseous. At least you didn’t have anything to carry in with you so you’re able to slip through the office unhindered – all of your work paraphernalia is still at Tom’s.

You try to avoid everyone’s gazes as you walk into your boss’ office and wait for him to utter those words you’re expecting to hear. No job means you can uproot completely and start fresh somewhere else. It might take some searching but surely there is a publication out there somewhere that hasn’t heard about the breach, or doesn’t care. Surely you can move somewhere it won’t follow you. Wordlessly he hands you your phone. It’s off – either turned off to stop the incoming messages or the result of a dead battery. You’ll be needing a new number too, probably. Just like…

“How are you doing?”

His question catches you off guard, not to mention the concerned tone with which it was delivered. Cautiously, you shrug. “Fine.” Not really fine. Not at all. “Trying to process…”

He nods and then frowns over your shoulder at the staff members peering through the office windows, trying to see what was going on. “Some vacation you had there.” He spins the lever to close the blinds before continuing. “And he is…”

“Fine.” You don’t know. You don’t care. Do you care? Yes. But decidedly no. You pocket your phone, not wanting to touch it too much, for the moment.

“Maybe another few days would help?”

That – wasn’t what you were expecting from him. You hadn’t really come in ready to work anyway. You were expecting to be fired, after all. You blink at him, nod, and then have to look down at the floor. “Uh. Thanks. I thought – thanks. It’ll help a lot actually.”

“I know it’s not my place, as your boss, to comment - but don’t duck tail and run from this. It’ll only amplify the story.” Wow. Advice from the most unexpected source. You nod, not entirely sure what to say in response. Your struggle is evident and he waves to dismiss you. “Ok take a few extra days – we’ll see you – Wednesday? Unless you want to extend your vacation past that? You certainly have the days stockpiled.”

You shake your head. You’ll need the money. Right now you’re holed up in a hotel room nearby. You’ll need the few days to get details ironed out regarding renting a place. Maybe you should wait to see if you even want to stay. Your coworkers are watching you so closely you feel almost like an exhibit in the zoo. Plus – Tom…

Well, the two of you can surely live in the same city and survive. Right?

You expected something from Tom in the first few days after he threw you out. Yes, you didn’t have your phone until this moment, but you expected some form of communication – email or something – telling you available times to come pick up some of your things.

It’s been a week.

Nothing.

You have plenty of other messages filling your voicemail and inbox on your phone until it won’t receive anything further. Why had you tortured yourself all week imagining the groveling emails he was composing – only to check and find nothing from him? Obviously he was still livid over the event and didn’t care to search you out. That speaks volumes towards the reality of the relationship you’d had with him. Once again you’re kicking yourself for becoming so invested in a man who didn’t feel the same way in return.

You need him to reach out to you, though, if just to tell you when he’ll be gone from the house so you can stop by. Considering you’d walked out without taking anything but your handbag… the clothes are easy enough to replace but you at least need your tablet, laptop, etc for work, now that you know your job is intact. Technically Tom had given you the laptop. You’d just leave a note telling him you’d pay him back if it was that much an issue.

You give him another day before you decide to break down and initiate contact. You can only stand flipping channels on the TV for so long – you’re avoiding all entertainment news networks for fear of being mentioned – before you start feeling a little stir crazy. You’ll just go over there… yep, you’ll go over there and use your key one last time to get the bare necessity of things… and then be done with it.

The thought makes you ache, but you’ve proven to yourself over the past eight days that you are strong. You are strong enough to survive this. You will survive him.

You stop and walk all the way back to the curb once, then chide yourself. You need to get it over with. You stop more times than you care to count on the way to the door. Should you just hire someone to pick up your things? What about calling it all a loss and starting fresh? People do that all the time. Too late for that choice now. You’ve already driven all the way over here.

Inserting the key into the lock you have a nasty thought. What if he’d already had the locks changed? The key turns and you half laugh at yourself. Something like that wasn’t in Tom’s playbook – but then you’d been blindsided by his roaring for you to get out so…

The house looks exactly as it had when you’d left. Why you expected it to look radically different now than a week had passed is beyond you. It’s eerie actually, how foreign and familiar it feels in unison. A glance to your left makes you shake your head. Your tablet still sits next to the dried goods that you’d pulled from the cabinets in prep for dinner that night. A day with the items left untouched, you get, but a week?

 Immediately to your right is the coat rack and key holder. His keys aren’t there so your unplanned trip won’t become more complicated than it needs to be. You start to put your keys on their proper hook, catch yourself in the act, and then scowl. It was an engrained habit that would need to be broken now that you don’t live here anymore.

As soon as the thought passes through your head you are stuck fast to the floor by the ache that follows. This is stupid. You don’t need your things this badly. No – that’s not what’s truly stupid about this whole thing. What was stupid was that you’d wasted so much time with a man who didn’t really love you. Not in the way you loved him.

You shake yourself and unhook the keys again, tossing them onto the counter before picking up your tablet. One item down. The rest? You’ll make a quick pass through the house and pick up the few odds and ends after you leave him a note. Something simple. Not that there’s really much more to say. You were at fault for not deleting the photos – you’ll apologize for that and then wish him well with his life. Actually the first full sentence that comes to mind as an opener for the note is: _You, sir, are an ass_.

No – no reason to make matters worse. You’ll stick to innocuous statements. You start to make up the note in your head. _Picked up a few things._ Just in case he doesn’t see them… _Keys are on the counter._ And something about the rest… assuming he hasn’t trashed it all, already. _Donate whatever is left that you don’t want._

You’re digging through the junk drawer for a pen and paper when you hear footsteps. You look from your keys on the countertop to the coat rack just to double check yourself. His keys _weren’t_ there. Maybe he’d hired someone to collect your things and they were coming to investigate all the noise you were making. This is going to be awkward. Hi! I’m the ex that you’re bringing those items to. I’ll just save you the gas and drive time, yea?

You plaster a fake cheery smile on your face, ready to try to explain things to a stranger. Then Tom steps into view. He looks just as surprised to see you as you are him.

Damn this was a bad idea.

He’s still angry, you can see that in his posture. You’ve caused a slight hiccup in his steps but he recovers nicely and now he’s just staring at you. You who is standing there in his kitchen uninvited. The note is pointless now so you drop the paper pad back into the drawer. You can practically see the accusation on his lips so you start to speak to beat him to the punch. “Just wanted to get a few things for work.” You hold up your tablet as evidence.

He looks from the tablet in your arms to the keys on the countertop, then to your face. “I didn’t hear you call out.”

You notice he has his keys clutched in one hand. No wonder you hadn’t seen them on the hook. It was unlike him to carry then around with him inside. No – you force the curiosity to stop before you can form the question – his habits are none of your business now.

“I didn’t think you’d be home.” Ok – that sounded bad. Whatever. He’d been the one yelling and throwing things. He was the one that kicked you out. But it was his house. Could he get you arrested for trespassing right now? “I should have asked for permission.” Somehow. You’re just barely able to restrain yourself from asking if he’d already gotten a new number.

Tom walks into the kitchen and circles the counter, putting the boxes of unopened food back where they belong. It’s like he hadn’t been in the room since you left. His silence leaves you unsettled. If he doesn’t trust himself to speak you need to get what you came for and leave. You can’t withstand another fight.

“I’ll um, I just need my portable hard-drive and laptop for work and…” Though you said it quietly you know he heard you. He puts the last box away and pauses, pressing his knuckles down onto the counter to support his weight. There is an awkward pause wherein you are caught watching his motionless form.

Is he either trying to figure out an apology or is he going to start yelling again? Either way you don’t really want to stand around waiting for him to make up his mind, and watching his shoulders shift beneath his shirt is ill advised. You avoid walking past him by taking the opposite route around the counter and out into the living room where your belongings are still tucked away. The blanket you’d been curled up in while surfing the web that night was still crumpled on the floor in front of the sofa.

You’re tempted to pick it up to replace it on the couch before you remember _you don’t live here anymore._ It isn’t your house to clean. Still, it takes effort to leave it where it is. You keep your eyes focused on the power cord as you wind it up upon itself to prepare for stuffing it into your handbag. The necessities. Just grab the basics of what you need and go.

“Do you…”

The moment he starts to speak you close your eyes. _Oh God don’t make this difficult, Tom. **You** kicked **me** out. Remember?_ You keep your back to him and continue to fiddle with the cord.

“That is – I can help, if you like.”

It seems he’s taking the apologetic approach. You take a breath and open your eyes again, focusing on placing the cord into your bag now. “No. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

He is quiet for a moment, watching you pick up the laptop and put it into your bag as well. “Just your work things?” Is he trying to draw the moment out or rush you along? Hard to say, since you’re refusing to turn around to talk to him.

“Yea. Sam didn’t fire me.” Well the laptop is in your possession now, and he didn’t put up a fuss over it – so there’s that. Now for the portable hard-drive. Where was it? It’s isn’t nearby, or anywhere within eyesight at the moment. You have to turn back around now so you can fully examine the rest of the room. And of course your gaze is pulled back to Tom. He is a magnet in that way, damn him. “So now I just need to figure out if I want to stay.”

Jesus. Why did you add that?

He looks down at the keys in his hand which also effectively hides his expression. You can’t figure him out just going by tone. “You’re thinking about leaving?”

Your reply is clipped. “I don’t know yet.” You force yourself forward to continue the hunt for your few things that you absolutely need. Get the hard-drive and get out. You keep your gaze averted when you walk past the bedroom. You don’t want to know if your things are still strewn everywhere, or if they’re already gone from the house. As it stands you’re going to have to raid the hotel bar after depositing your few things in your room.

In the media room you find what you are looking for. The hard-drive is still tucked into the bookshelf from where you’d been using it in conjunction with your laptop while Tom was reviewing something on his computer. That, too, safely tucked away in your bag you’re left to stand there and think, trying to figure out if you absolutely needed anything else or if it was all fair game for him to do with what he wanted. You keep your eyes forward when you walk past him to leave the room again. This time when you walk by the bedroom you sneak a glance inside. The room is clean again.

On the one hand it hurts that the bedroom is pristine while the rest of the house still showed signs that you lived there. On the other hand? At least he was ok enough to keep the one room clean. Your heart lurches again. Stop caring. He threw you out. Stop caring.

“I tried to find you, about an hour after you left the house.” He is almost too late with the words. You’ve reached the door, bypassing the counter and leaving your keys where you’d tossed them. “But I didn’t know where you were.”

You let go of the door and turn back to him, folding your arms over your chest. The weight of your bag makes your stance a bit lopsided. “That tends to happen when you throw someone out.”

“I tried calling but well – I guess you had the same problems that I did, with your mobile.” When you don’t reply he shifts, causing the keys in his hand to jingle. The noise makes him look down, surprised, as though he’d forgotten he was holding the key-ring containing his house and car keys. He pockets the set before speaking again. “I lost my temper.”

He sounds genuinely remorseful. But then he’s paid to be able to convey every emotion under the sun with incredible accuracy. How much stock do you put into the words?

“I _know_ , Tom. I was there trying to figure out a solution - and got things thrown at me in reward.” You shake your head, “Not only that, but you stood there wrecking our …” the word chokes you a bit, “what had been _our_ room while yelling horrible things. Insulting me. My job….”

“I was being harassed!”

“And that excuses your behavior?” You unfold your arms to tighten your grip on your handbag. He has yet to raise his voice again but you can feel the tension building between the pair of you.

“Do you have any idea how many indecent photos I was being sent? How many phone calls I received that day?”

“No. Because you were too busy shouting at me and then throwing me out to talk to me about it!” And you’ve avoided learning anything more about the incident through sheer determination.

Dealing with the repercussions on your own end had been enough to handle without learning how those of your profession were spinning the whole thing or what he’d shared with the media about ‘the event’. After retrieving your phone from work yesterday and charging it, you’d turned it back on to discover it had been filled with a mixture of fan hate, photos of Tom that had been covered in graffiti, and assorted other lewd photographs from people saying they knew it was right up your alley. 

Screw staying in contact with people. You’d promptly turned the phone off again.  At that point you knew your job was intact so what did anything else matter?

And why are you standing here reliving it with the man that had apparently thought that you’d sent the information out – that you’d spent so many months getting close to him in order to gain the ultimate celebrity scoop?

You hold up your hand to stop him from snapping back a reply. “Just – ok. I didn’t come here to fight with you. I should have just said screw it and started fresh from the files I have at work.” You meet his eyes and try to smile, though you manage something that closer resembles a grimace.

Do you say goodbye this time? Or just walk out like you did before? Well, before you’d been nearly running to escape the shouting… He takes advantage of your hesitation. “Are you going to tell me where you’re going, this time?”

“Why?”

“So I can…” The force behind your immediate response makes him stumble a bit over his explanation, “I want to apologize, when you’ll hear me out.”

“Oh Jesus, Tom. This was your attempt at an _apology_?” No more standing around. Standing around talking to him is only making it worse.

You’re halfway out the door and he’s still pushing the issue. “Hey! It’s not my fault that any of this happened.”

At least he has better sense than to try to follow you. You emit a hollow laugh, holding the door open just long enough to get in the last word. “That’s right. I almost forgot. It’s all my fault.” This time you get a little bit of satisfaction over shutting the door in his face. You’d been so consumed by the moment last time that you hadn’t had time to relish the sound of the slam.

Once out on the sidewalk you reach down into your bag to retrieve your car keys. That’s when you realize they are still on the key-ring you’d left on the counter inside.

“FUCK.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You left your phone at work, and someone couldn’t resist seeing if they could hack into it. You are dating Tom Hiddleston, after all. Well - you were - but then the result of the hacked phone had been leaked lewd photos and the release of Tom’s unlisted number. For once Tom’s control over his temper had cracked and you’d borne the brunt of his anger. He’d thrown you out, and by that point you were only too happy to escape his temper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab a plate and throw it on the floor.  
> Did it break? Yes? Ok.  
> Now tell it you’re sorry.  
> Good. Now, did it unbreak?  
> No?  
> Now you understand.

You stand there in the middle of the sidewalk weighing your options. Basically all you’re doing is delaying the inevitable. Since your boss gave you an additional few days of vacation you theoretically _could_ leave your car in the parking lot and find some other means of transportation back to your hotel… That presents a whole slew of other problems. How are you going to get around to go hunting for a new place to live?

Who could you even send back to get your keys and your car? Your boss’ words ring in your head: _Don’t tuck tail and run from this._

Did that include running from Tom, too? That’s your own personal battle to figure out. You can’t rely on the judgment or advice of others for the solution there.

Fuck.

How had you been so absent minded as to leave your car keys on the key-ring? That should have been the first thing you saw to... What are the odds that he’ll have gone back upstairs so you can swoop back in without – no. That idea is flawed on so many levels. Firstly, that’s called breaking and entering, even if the door is unlocked.

You stand there cursing the events that had led to this moment. You never should have left your phone next to your keyboard. It was a bad habit you had developed and never bothered correcting – propping your phone up on the desk to make it easier to check. You’d convinced yourself it was for reference purposes, really it was just because you were addicted to the stream of information.

Oh forget the leaving of the phone. Forget the retention of the snapshots. It was an invasion of privacy, pure and simple. You really can’t blame Tom for spewing out all the hate against your profession, not when one of your coworkers had acted the way that they did. It doesn’t excuse him for directing all that hate at _you_ …

You sigh and try to roll the stiffness from your shoulders. Arguing with Tom has made you tense. And there’s no way around it… you’ll have to go and knock on the door and pray for the best.

The walk back to the door takes three times as long as it took you to walk the dozen odd paces out onto the sidewalk. You hadn’t paid a bit of attention to the weather report for the day, but off in the distance there are dark clouds signaling an evening thunderstorm. Days like today are what drive you mad. Beauty that has hints of darkness attempting to edge out the light.

You square your shoulders and take a deep breath before rapping your knuckles on the door – the five tap sequence that you always used when visiting Tom on set: rap-tap-rap-tap-tap to the pace of _Shave and a Hair Cut_. You always left out the last two taps for Tom to supply the reply. You instantly scowl at yourself for using the familiar knock. Talk about habits you’re going to have to break…

He opens the door just a bit too quickly. Was he watching your struggle through the front window?

“Back so soon?”

Yep, he was watching. You have no doubt that he was watching every step you took with hawk-like precision. His query is delivered with an overly sweet tone – he’s trying not to gloat that you came back to the door and doing a piss poor job of it.

You give you head a hard shake in the negative, “Not to talk. I just need to grab…” When you glance over at the counter you trail off the end of the sentence. The counter is bare. “…my keys.” Oh the arrogant bastard has hidden your car keys to get his way. You turn your gaze back up to meet his, “Where are my keys, Tom?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, defiantly staring you down. He actually has the gall to let a hint of a playful smile cross his lips.

How on earth does he think he has the upper hand in this conflict?

You drop your bag just inside the door and squeeze past him in the tiny entryway to walk further into the kitchen, hoping that he has just scooped the keys up from the counter and tossed them somewhere out of view when standing at the front door.

He hasn’t uncrossed his arms, just turns to watch you circle the kitchen. “I’ll gladly give you back your apartment keys once we talk.”

You glare at him briefly and then resume your search, now expanding to pulling open the cabinet drawers, “Talk? Jesus, Tom. The time for talking was a week ago. Instead you threw me out. Now I’m trying to leave like _you_ wanted. I just need my car keys to actually _do_ that.”

 “Well I _don’t_ want that.”

You finish your inspection of the two drawers you’d pulled out and shove them both shut with a thump.  “Nice of you to realize that, now.” Standing there arguing with him will get you nowhere. You sigh, “Just give me my car keys.”

Tom is blocking the doorway now, stoically watching you hunt for your car keys. “No. I want you to hear me out, first.”

Had he hidden them someplace other than the kitchen? He is still staring at you every time you look up from your search. It isn’t like he had that much time to hide them elsewhere, right?

“Well, I didn’t want my heart broken but hey, we can’t always get what we want.” He didn’t throw the keys in the junk drawers along the side wall. Surely he didn’t toss them in with the silverware but you check just to be sure. You pop those drawers shut after a brief inspection turns up nothing but forks, knives and the like in their proper places. No keys.

Damn it Tom.

Thoroughly irritated now, you slap the palms of your hands down against your sides. You always do tend to talk with your hands when you get irritated – something Tom had commented on during the first few months of dating. You’d dated for nearly a year before moving in together, and then had almost survived a year of living together before this incident occurred. Maybe it was too soon to have taken that step. You were still learning things about each other – still didn’t know each other well enough, apparently.

He should have known that you never would have sent those photos out. Yes, they were photos of _him_ , and _his_ number – but your number had gone out as well. It should have been something that the pair of you faced together.

But Tom had blamed you instead of consulting you. You could have been there to offer support – as the partner in the relationship you thought the pair of you had. The pair of you could have regrouped in private, then issued a public statement regarding the photos and invasion of your _combined_ privacy.

God if only it had gone that way.

“Alright. Fine. I shouldn’t have kept the photos on my phone. I should have deleted them immediately just like the others. And I should have better concealed your number, just like protecting a fucking source. Ok. I talked, you listened. Car keys. Now.” You hold out your hand and stare at his collar bone – it’s safer than staring into his eyes.

“Don’t I get to say anything?”

When he speaks your eyes go immediately to his mouth. Oh staring at his collar bone wasn’t safe, wasn’t safe at all.

You furrow your eyebrows together, forcing your focus away from those damned lips and up to meet his eyes. Why had you ever gotten involved with him? Simple. You’d been powerless to withstand the pull of the kind soul held within the gorgeous shell.

Well – you’d taken him to be a kind man – and then this had happened.

And as much as you hate to admit it, he had been right when he was yelling at you a week prior: Relationships between the media and those whose lives they cover are never a good idea. _Journalist._ He’d spat the word at you – and then – _Dance little journalist, dance._

Maybe if you try to steer him back to that line of thought he’ll let this agonizing period of your lives end. Then you can go your separate ways.

“Aren’t you afraid that it’ll appear quoted in an article somewhere? I’m a _journalist_ remember…” You try to push just as much venom into the word as he had. As upset as you are right now, you’re nowhere near as angry as he was that day so it falls a bit flat. You continue on anyway, “It’s what I live for, right? The quote. The scoop. Spinning the story however I can…”

He clenches his jaw, exhales, and then unfolds his arms. He’s doing his best to channel his frustration out in any means other than words. Your barbs may have riled him but he’s determined to say his piece now that he has you essentially held hostage. “You done?”

You rub your hand over your eyes, “Yes. No. I don’t know. With you? With all of this… God, just give me my car keys.”

You look up and hold your hand out again but he doesn’t budge. “No. ______, I’m sorry. Ok? I apologize for losing my temper. For throwing things. For all of it.”

You shake your head. “So you’re sorry. Keys.”

“No! Come on. Yell at me if it helps. Hate me for a while, if you must, but give me hope that you’ll stay – that you’ll forgive me.” Tom steps towards you in the kitchen and you take a step back to keep the distance established between the pair of you.

Now it’s your turn to say the word he’s been using so often in the past few minutes. “No.”

“No?” He frowns at you, taking another step across the tiled floor.

“No. Tom, no. Don’t you get that just because you’re sorry, just because you’re _saying_ you’re sorry, it doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you?” You weren’t planning on a confrontation but your brain had created a sort of script, regardless. You’d had a week to stew over the words, after all. “How can you possibly think I’d want to forgive you? That I’d want to stay after you hurled hurtful words and literal _things_ at me?”

“I’m _sorry_ , babe.”

You shake your head. “I hear you. You keep saying it and I hear you, Tom. But that doesn’t mean you’re forgiven. My actions may have caused the cracks to show in our relationship, but you? You _broke us_.”

 “Sweetheart. Don’t say that.” He seems to be finally understanding you. The aggression is finally gone from his stance, at least. “Look, if I explain _why_ it made me react the way I did…”

The pain he’s exuding calls out to the emotions coursing through you. Fuck. Why do you love him so much? You can love him and hate him, be pulled towards him and never want to see him again, all at the same time. You can’t stop shaking your head. “We’ll still be broken, Tom.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You left your phone at work and someone hacked it, leaking illicit photos and Tom’s private number to the public. The incident had broken Tom’s masterful control of his temper and he’d thrown you out - as though, just by sharing a profession with the guilty party, you’d been an accomplice. You’d waited a week to go back to retrieve what few things you absolutely needed. Tom had been there, much to your surprise — and as much as you tried to avoid another row with him, you’d ended up facing down an angry Tom once more._

Point A: You love the man standing before you.  
Point B: You hate the man standing before you.  
Point C: The man standing before you has hidden your car keys so you can’t escape him.

You can’t keep looking at him. Right now he’s finally starting to understand the pain you’re in. He forced you into it – into telling him that he’d destroyed the relationship. Ok so pushing all that guilt at him wasn’t entirely fair, but neither was holding you hostage.

And he wants to offer up reasons why he exploded the way that he did. Reasons are lovely, but they don’t excuse the behavior. You keep shaking your head back and forth in mute protest. No. No. No. You’re over this exhausting exchange. If Tom won’t give you back your car keys there are other ways of getting into your car. It makes your stomach constrict but it’ll have to be done. You’ll just turn it on for a few moments, long enough to make the calls and then turn it off again. You just have to retrieve it from your bag, so back into the hallway you go.

“Come on. Please just let me explain…”

He tries to block your path but you slip past him – chalk it up to years of practice worming your way through crowds in pursuit of a story. You almost smile but then Tom’s venomous delivery of the word echoes in your head: _Journalist_.

“Forgive me if I don’t want to hear it.” It just takes you a second to squat down to retrieve your phone from the side pocket you’d relegated it to. You didn’t want it touching the rest of your belongings. Maybe that could be the next adventure for today – go to get a new number and replace the whole damned phone, just for good measure.

Tom has turned to follow you back towards the door. He probably would have followed you right out onto the sidewalk if you’d walked out again. He watches as you turn the phone back on. “What are you doing?”

The phone will take a few moments to restart and that’s a few moments longer than you want to be holding the thing. Maybe you could put it down on the … well if he’d get out of the way you could put it down. You sigh, stalled in the entryway. “I’m calling a locksmith – and then the dealership to see if they can make me a spare key to get me home since I’ve lost my keys.”

Tom is standing uncomfortably close. The fact that you sidestepped him so easily to get back to your bag has brought the stiffness back to his stance. “That’s not necessary. Wherever you’re staying in isn’t home. _This_ is your home.”

“It _was_.” Watching your phone load all the programs at a snail’s pace won’t make it go faster. You just need it to beep to indicate that you can make a call. You look away, but since you’re also trying not to look at him your eyes are drawn back to the screen. Internally you’re willing your phone not to ring. No incoming messages. No phone calls. Just turn on and let you place a call, that’s all you ask.

“It _is._ ” He is fixated on the way you’re focused on the object in your hands, “Why the hell are you holding your mobile like that?”

Right – because up until now it has all been about how photos of _him_ were leaked, about how _his_ number was the one everyone was calling. In the relationship he was the celebrity, he was the headline. You were _at best_ a byline – at this point, maybe a footnote.

How had he phrased it when he said he’d tried to call you? He figured you also had ‘problems with your mobile’. Problems… not quite accurate a word to describe it, in your opinion. Ugh, and the phone is taking its sweet time starting up. “You weren’t the only one to get photos and phone calls, Tom.”

He’s had a week – a week! – and still it evidently hadn’t occurred to him that any ‘problems with your mobile’ would cause you any lingering inconvenience. What did he think? That you’d purposefully kept your phone off so he couldn’t contact you?

A phrase once again pops into your head. Forget writing it out in a note, you actually might say it to his face: _You, sir, are an ass._ No. No you’re not going to deepen the trench established between the pair of you – though admittedly you wouldn’t mind a bit of added distance right now.

“So you’ve been keeping it off?” He knits his eyebrows together causing frown lines to crease his forehead. Careful there monsieur Hiddleston – your play of concern will net you extra time in the makeup chair.

Oh do you ever not want to get into the conversation with him regarding your phone. You just want to move on. “Yes. Unbelievable as it may be, the journalist has been going without her information fix.”

You should remove yourself from his presence – deal with the locksmith and dealership once outside again. Somehow you just can’t quite motivate yourself to pick up your bag and take those steps. Maybe he’s hidden your keys somewhere in the entryway. You search while you wait for the phone to cooperate. The keys aren’t hanging in plain view but that doesn’t mean he didn’t slip them into a coat pocket. You test your theory but come up empty.

You start to ramble to fill the silence. “Sam’s had it at the office all week. I only picked it up yesterday. And if you’d give me my damn car keys I could go get rid of…”

[plock]

The sound of a photo message makes you twitch and glance down at your phone. Unknown number. Well. It’s ready to call out. “Fuck.” You swipe to clear the message without looking at it.

[plock] [ding] [plock] [plock]

Three more photos and a voicemail notice. You’ll just tell the employee at the store to mass delete any and everything on the phone after they've pulled all the contacts over to a new device. And maybe warn them not to look at any photos that might appear. Can they block the number from receiving anything while they work? That would make things simpler during the changeover.

And by simpler you mean less embarrassing.

“Tom please just give me my car keys.” You just want to get on with your day and thereby the rest of your life.

But Tom won’t relinquish your car keys. Damn him. He’s standing even closer now, eyes stuck on the screen of your phone. “How many messages did that say you have?”

[plock]

Oh yes, play kind-caring-lover now. You turn the phone and hold it away from him. You’ve had enough of standing in the entryway – at least in the kitchen the pair of you weren’t standing inches apart – but Tom isn’t budging from where he has planted his feet. “I don’t know. I keep deleting them. More than enough. What – you need a second helping now that you’ve gotten your own troubles squared away?”

“Squared away? I blocked every number but yours.”

[plock] The sounds associated with the incoming messages are making things worse. [plock] Even more irritated now, you snap back at him, “Oh that makes sense. What about work? Your family?” [plock] Of course he’d already dealt with the phone situation on his end. He probably had someone on it in the moments immediately after you left.

He continues to frown at you. You’re not giving him the reactions he’s looking for. “There’s always the landline. But I gave them a temporary mobile number to call if it’s urgent.”

“Of course you did.”

“Are you going to snap in response to everything I say?”

[plock]

“Probably. So say what you need to say so I can leave.” _And back the fuck up, while you’re at it_. You only say that last bit internally but damn it all if it wouldn’t help. He blocked every number but yours. Blocked _all_ numbers but _yours._ “Why would you do that?” He isn’t privy to your line of thought so you barrel on, explaining the comment, “Why would you block all incoming calls rather than just cancel the line completely? I didn’t have my phone, anyway.”

So much for letting him say his piece. Tom’s exasperation is mounting again. “Well I didn’t know that, did I? I wasn’t about to call Sam to find out if you’d shown up there. He’d probably have thought it was an exclusive and…”

Again Tom’s vicious delivery of the word flashes in your head: _Journalist_. “Don’t you pull Sam into this -- at least I still have a job!” You feel the need to defend your boss because you _are_ grateful. You’re grateful that you still have a job. You’ll need the income to pay for new housing. Not that you’ve made up your mind to stay but – still, the option is there.

“Oh. Sam’s a fucking saint now because he didn’t fire you. Tell me he fired whomever hacked your phone.” Tom waves his hands and lifts his eyes towards the ceiling before looking back at you again. “I can’t believe you want to stay there working with those -- with those...”

"The word you're looking for is  _journalists._ "

[plock]

Tom directs that wounding glare from your face to your phone and holds out his hand. “Jesus. Give me that. At least silence the thing.”

You hand it over without thinking, just wanting to be free of the thing for a few moments. Immediately you wish you hadn’t. Now he has both your keys and your phone. But wait – his landline. How had you completely forgotten about the landline? Well – it wasn’t used much. Most friends and family just utilized you as proxy if they couldn’t get ahold of Tom.

While he’s fiddling about with the phone you push past him again, intent on calling the locksmith. If he happens to snoop and discover any of the photos you’ve been sent over the last week he deserves the frustration that comes along with it. The phone isn’t in the cradle where it should be – of course not – but sitting over next to the sink.

You almost ask why. Almost. Instead you grab the phone and walk to the cabinet where you know the number for the locksmith is plastered on the inside of the door. The locks have been changed more than once since you started living with Tom, for varying reasons.

Tom has had possession of your phone long enough to tap through to the device settings. You’ve got the number for the locksmith partially dialed when your phone starts to ring. You freeze, knowing from his facial expression exactly what is showing on the screen:

_Unknown caller_. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tom broke up with you. Tom threw you out over the invasion of privacy that **wasn’t your fault**. You were just coming back to collect a few things. You shouldn’t have handed over your phone. No, back up. You shouldn’t have dropped your keys without removing the car keys from the ring. No, still not far enough. You never should have started dating the man in the first place._

You watch him scowl at the message displayed on the phone – _Unknown Caller_ – those long fingers paused, mid-action. “Tom. Don’t.” You manage two words of warning before he moves again.

Why had you handed over your phone? _Please let it be something about work… some long lost friend calling to see if I’m ok… anything but…_

He holds the phone to his ear in silence for a beat – two – and then his face contorts into disgust. His words come out in an explosive tone that makes you flinch. ”Where the fuck do you get off?!”  

There’s a slight pause in which you cancel the half-made phone call on the landline, replace the handset in the damned cradle where it is _supposed_ to go, and take the few steps over to where Tom is standing. Your heart is hammering in your chest. _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._

“ _You_ called _this_ number. _Who_ is _this_?”  He takes a sidestep to turn halfway away from you.

 _Disengage! Think this through, Hiddleston. Oh God. You ass! Why did you answer the phone?!_ You duck under his extended elbow to stand directly in his eye-line. He doesn’t immediately look at you but rather focuses his glare just over your head.

“Tom, give me the phone.” You force out a vehement almost-whisper.

He keeps the phone pressed to his ear, though he heard what you said clear enough. His eyes flicker down to meet yours for a moment before snapping back up to look over the top of your head at the unknown spot on the kitchen wall. The look is clear enough – **No way in hell.** “No – _you’re_ going to tell _me_ who you are. And then explain the reasoning behind calling and harassing someone.”

 _Don’t scold the stranger you idiot. Hang up._ You try again, not bothering with trying to keep your voice down. “Tom, give me the phone!” He is using his height to his advantage along with holding his arm just-so to block your reach.

“No. It’s _not_ fucking funny or entertaining or...”

Well – at least his anger isn’t directed at you for the moment. Oh Lord – but what if the person on the other end of the line is recording this? Illegal as it may be, some people just want that little bit of fame. **Yea I’m on that phone call where you can hear Tom Hiddleston curse like a sailor. How very charming of him, right? Yea, willing to sell. So where’ll we start the bidding?**

Tom is refusing to hand over the phone so you try a different version of the phrase. “Tom! _Hang_ _up now_.” You finally manage to wrestle the phone from his death grip and end the call. You don’t even want to know what the other end of the call sounded like. “What the hell are you thinking? Are you _trying_ to make things worse?” You just about throw the phone across the room, settling for tossing it onto the nearby counter instead. Who fucking cares if it gets damaged at this point.

“He was—“ Now his anger is back focused on you again.

Well that reprieve was short lived. You hold both hands out before you, the motion oddly reminiscent of when you were trying to stall his angry words a week ago, the act still completely ineffective. “Tom. Jesus. Stop. I don’t care what he was saying. There’s a _reason_ I had my phone off!”

“Right. To keep me from being able to apologize.”

“No, you narcissistic ass!”

He smirks just a bit, “Bet that felt good.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “It did actually. Thanks.”

Good doesn’t even touch it. It feels _fabulous_ to finally call him that. It has been cycling through your head all week. You point with your whole hand towards your phone, which is cheerfully emitting incoming text message noises.

[plock]

[plock]

[plock]

[plock]

You’re wound up again now. Damn him, he knows exactly which buttons to push. He’d wanted you to vent out your frustrations with him – well that’s what he’s getting. “I kept my phone off to not continually subject myself to that _shit_ , and then say something _stupid_ that just feeds the story!”

Tom shoves his hands deep into his pockets to keep from waving his arms about as you are. He lets a short faux-laugh begin his sentence. “Defending you is _stupid_ now, is it?”

You’re so exasperated you can’t quite find words. It’s no use. There is no way a decent conversation can come about while the pair of you are so worked up. You press your palms together and hold the side of your fingertips against your lips for a moment before lowering your hands to speak. “That’s just – Tom if you’d considered that as an option from the very start of all of this then maybe we wouldn’t be standing here fighting.”

“So don’t mouth off for _two minutes_ and _listen_.”

His sass coupled with a hard glare makes you clamp your mouth shut. You press your lips into a thin line. _Alright asshole. Then I’m walking out of here with or without my keys. Two minutes. **Go.** One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three, one-thousand._

One hand comes out of his pocket to ruffle through his curls. “Do you remember, a few years back, how I had to move?”

 _Nice segue, Hiddleston._ You vaguely remember hearing about it, or reading about it. Something. Your brain is too focused on finding colorful adjectives to describe him at the moment to be able to figure out the connection exactly.

_Ten, one-thousand. Eleven, one-thousand._

The fact that you haven’t flinched to show recognition sends him into a frustrated panic. He motions to the cabinet you were just standing next to, “It’s the reason for the changing of the locks so frequently. It’s why we have the locksmith’s card pasted in the cabinet!”

His use of the collective pronoun makes your heart lurch but you’re able to keep yourself immobile. _Stop caring. Stop caring. He threw you out._

“Ok yes, I did legitimately lose my keys right after you first moved in, and then you lost yours not a month later… but – not everyone in the area knows the local locksmith quite so well.”

He’s trying to joke, to make you crack a smile so your anger will begin to dissipate. It’s a tactic he’s used before. You are usually affected by his contagious good humor, unable to do much but smile along with him.

 _Twenty-four, one-thousand._ _Twenty-five, one-thousand._

It _had_ struck you as odd when the locksmith had announced that it wasn’t _time yet_ to replace the tumbler, when he’d come to the house after Tom had lost his keys. Who had a schedule for lock maintenance? Never mind the fact that most people just had more keys cut, rather than replacing the lock. You’d chalked it up to an eccentric quirk of Tom’s – and the notion had been redoubled when the same scenario happened after your keys had been misplaced. You hadn’t thought to question it. You had been more focused on the newness of living with him, and surviving his endless energy.

He can see your mind at work, processing his words. Joking seems to calm him, though he clearly desperately wants to be doing something with his hands.

The king of fidgeting. That’s your Tom. _Your_. Your chest constricts again. _Stop that. Not yours. Not anymore._

He dips his head towards the kitchen table, “Can I, can I make us some tea? Get you a water?”

“Don’t.” You shake your head and offer him a softly spoken warning, “Don’t try to use your charm right now.” Your internal pendulum has been swinging back and forth all week from anger to sorrow and back again. It’s fucking exhausting.

The smile instantly disappears again. “I’m not!” His eager protestation sounds just as irksome to his ears as yours. He licks his lips and repeats himself, this time at a more level tone. “I’m not. I’m sorry. I just thought – some small comfort while we talked… while I um, explained…”

You exhale, “That, that right there is part of the problem. You become the man who always apologizes and yet continues on with the behavior. Hearing it over and over, the words become empty of meaning.”

His eyes are drifting over your features. He’s consuming every little flicker of emotion that is emerging from you. He nods slowly, “Ok. But can we at least sit down?”

Yes. Yes to sitting. Yes to moving to the kitchen table. The kitchen table and _not_ the sofa in the living room. Sitting in the wooden chairs at the table allows you to maintain whatever distance from him you wish. And since the table is at the opposite end of the kitchen, you’re just about as far from the counter where your mobile sits as you can possibly be.

He doesn’t immediately move to follow you towards the table. “Was that a yes or no to something to drink?” He’s stalling.

“Tom…”

“Ok. Nothing to drink.” He hesitates, almost stopping to touch the back of your chair but your look warns him off. He settles for dragging the next chair just a slight bit closer to the one you’ve chosen and plunking himself down into the seat to wait for you to give him the nod for the go ahead. He gives his watch a half-curious, half-nervous glance and then lifts one eyebrow.

His eyes then lift to meet yours. _Don’t even say it. Yes I lost count. I’m hearing you out. Don’t even say it._

Your internal words must have been clear enough because he clears his throat and licks his lips before delving into what he feels he needs to say. “Alright. Look, before I met you I had something oddly similar happen with another journalist. _Nothing romantic_ ,” he’s quick to squash that thought before it can completely form in your mind, “ **he** was just someone to share a few laughs with. Freelance guy so he didn’t mind the odd hours I was keeping. Brilliant at table tennis. Very challenging…”

He’s gotten sidetracked within his memories. You hem softly to pull him back to the topic at hand. He looks a bit sheepish and then rushes on with his words, “But I showed too much trust and it backfired in a big way. That’s why I live here now – surely you remember – things got crazy. My home address was leaked and then routes I frequented, places I used to like to shop.”

As he lists things out small pings are going off in your brain – or is that still your phone merrily chirping away? The things Tom is referencing happened before you’d switched to covering entertainment. It had made you sick to hear of the breach of trust. And then you’d met Tom, years later, and couldn’t imagine someone ever befriending him and them betraying that friendship as such.

He seems almost desperate that you remember the media coverage. “Guy even knew my _security code_ because I’d invited him over a couple times. Threatened to reveal that too, though we managed to sort that out. But it’s why I switched back to old school locks and coordinated a timeframe for…” He shakes himself, “Look that’s not the point. When those calls began pouring in last week I started having flashbacks. And then the photos – you were the only source I could think of.”

He holds up his hands to stall your indignation. “I couldn’t get ahold of you between being bombarded by calls and I – I didn’t know you were already home or I would’ve called the landline. I thought maybe I’d been a fool. That you’d…” Again he shakes his head. “Then I walk in the door and you are _chipper – playful_.”

You want to shout but hold it back to a stern reply. “Because I _didn’t know_.”

He nods, “And I know that _now_ , but at that point in time I was so beyond angry I couldn’t see that. I _know_ you don’t want me to say it again but – I. Am. Sorry. For all of it.” He tries a weak smile, “Last damn time I send illicit photos, scouts honor.”

You sit there in silence for a beat longer than he expects. He looks down, crestfallen, then glances over to the counter where your phone lies in wait. He doesn’t keep his gaze averted long. “I’ll take care of the phones. Just leave _that_ here and let me um, I’ll have them ship the replacement to your office. New number. The whole um… Right. Ok.”

He reaches into his pocket and you hear the jingling of keys. When he removes his hand again he reveals both his keys and yours. He’s had them the entire time. His steady stream of words is apparently used up, now that he’s spoken his piece. He just sits there, with the key-ring dangling from his index finger, waiting to see what you’ll do.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A week and a half. A week and a half since someone had hacked your phone - since the public had gotten an up close peek at Tom Hiddleston - since Tom had thrown you out. A week and a half isn’t long enough, even given the reasons for his behavior._

You reach out to take your keys from him, carefully slipping them off his hooked index finger. The worn metal gives you something else to look at other than Tom. Your heart and mind are both lurching about unsteadily. Mercifully that doesn’t translate to tremors in your hands. Outwardly you are calm.

He wants to replace your phone and send you a new one? No. That will keep you beholden to him, effectively extending this period of time in both your lives. You can take care of it yourself. As for his explanation as to his actions a week prior - it both mollifies and infuriates you.  It was so much easier to maintain your anger when he wasn’t sitting there opposite you, before you’d heard him begging for forgiveness, before you’d heard his reasons _why_ …

Why won’t your heart cooperate? _Stop caring. Stop caring!_ Your heart is determined to betray your head.

So he’s been wounded before by someone else in your profession. You are _not_ that person.

It probably took him an enormous amount of persuasion to be able to trust again – let alone develop a friendship, then relationship with you. But again, you are _not_ the person that had betrayed him in the past.

Maybe his hesitance to trust again was the reason he had held that vital story so close to the chest. Maybe if he’d shared it with you, you would’ve been able to take more care…. But it wasn’t as though you’d intentionally left your phone out with a note that said: _Come one, come all. Nudes of Tom Hiddleston held within!_

Then there’s the fact that on some level he had believed, even for a moment, that you would be party to such a betrayal. Your reaction to him that day should have been enough to stall those thoughts and put an end to the rampage.

Anger has the capability of blinding you. His anger had made it impossible to reason with him. You’re trying to make sure you don’t let your anger get the better of you. You don’t want to end up saying things you don’t mean – things you can never retract.

He’s cautiously encouraged by your silence and the fact that you’re still sitting there in the kitchen with him. You can hear the hope in his voice when he speaks. “I’m probably going to regret this, but… Say something?”

His intense focus on you in this moment is yet another reason to keep your eyes averted. You can feel those damn baby blues boring into you, observing and absorbing every iota of emotion escaping you at the moment.

You twist the keys about on the ring, hesitating further. If anybody had cared to ask this morning whether or not you were ever going to so much as give Tom the time of day, your answer to them would have been: NO – no with a few explicatives thrown in for good measure.

Ok maybe that was going a bit far. Professional detachment – that’s what you would have gone for – and probably could have achieved given enough time and distance from this emotional turbulence. Then you had gone and gotten a little stir crazy – somehow coming to the conclusion that it was a good idea to rescue a few of your belongings.

What had you been thinking? Closure? One last ill-advised glimpse at the life you had?

Masochist.

But he wants a reply. Can you grant him that – can you say anything without wounding the both of you further?

The list of all the colorful names you’d wanted to call him only minutes previous scrolls through your head. “I… don’t think that’s wise,” you respond, again turning the keys over in your fingers. Each key holds such importance, such value to you. Despite everything that has happened it is difficult to think of the whole minus one of the keys currently present.

Car. Office. Home.

_Ex. Ex-home._

You make a fist, squeezing the keys into your palm. It doesn’t do much to distract from the pain currently pulsing in your chest but it’s something.

“I don’t care if it’s wise. Please. Talk to me. At least look at me.” He reaches out and presses his fingers lightly down onto your kneecap. Damn that man’s extended reach. Upon contact your eyes immediately trail up, following the appendage to meet with his torso, his neck, his jawline, and those damned eyes.

You wet your lips with your tongue and take a breath before speaking. “Why are you so set on making this difficult?”

Up go his eyebrows, causing all those intricate little creases that you love to appear. You try to force your eyes back down to the keys now cutting into your palm but he gives your knee a light squeeze, directing your eye line right back up its previous path to his face again. “Because I want this to be something we survive. I want it to be nothing more than a speed bump.”

If only a consistent emotion would present every time you looked at him. “Tom…”

“Can I apologize again?”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” You unclench your fingers to push his hand off your knee. “And for fuck’s sake, if you consider this _just a speed bump_ –“

He’s quick to hold up his hands in submission, “Poor choice of words. Poor choice of words.”

You bite down the flare of anger with care. It pisses you off so much because he so clearly wants you in his life, just as you want to be a part of his – but can you trust him again? Is he worth going through the long battle of repairing this relationship? He threw you out without batting an eye.

You look momentarily down at the keys in your hand. “Tom. I’ll make you a deal. I’m going to go deal with my phone. _On. My. Own._ I’m going to go back to my hotel. _On. My. Own._ ”

“Again with the hotel....” Tom starts to gripe.

“No. Hush.” You wave your empty hand at him, “Hush or I’ll remove the house key and walk out that door and that will be the end of this.” You wait, holding your keys to demonstrate it isn’t an empty threat. After a few prolonged beats of silence you continue. “I’m going to go back to work and you’re going to give me some space to sort all this out.”

He grumbles out a sentence under his breath. “I can’t believe you’re considering staying on there…” When you stand he immediately does the same. “Sorry! No no. Continue. On your own. Space. I’m to give you space.”

You shake your head at him, “God this is – I have ever right to just walk away. I _should be walking away_. You get that, don’t you?”

Tom nods. He takes a step towards you before remembering that you just asked for space, and in a show of taking it literally, he takes a step back again.

You retrieve your phone from the counter, holding it with care. You’ll be rid of the thing soon, thank God. You pause after stooping to pick up your bag again and tossing the phone into the side pocket again. Tom is following you at a cautious distance. “And just to make it clear, if I decide that we’re going to try to make things work… and that’s a big _if_ … I’m not moving back in here right away. I’m going to find a place…”

“On your own?” He supplies.

You jangle the keys in your hand and shake your head. “I swear to God, Tom. I’m still pissed at you. Stop making it worse.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Time is supposed to heal all wounds, right? A week after your privacy had been breached and the photographs had been sent out, the pair of you had still been arguing - still angry with each other, with the circumstance. Two weeks after, you’d been able to better control the contradicting emotions that were the result of the fallout. Now? Now you need to make a choice. Stay with Tom, or leave him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **You never finish with anyone while they can still make you angry.**

You reread this, the second email from Tom, while curled up on the bench before the bay window in your new place. You’ve got your tablet settled on your knees as you bask in the sunlight pouring in the window. He hasn’t asked for your new number, yet, or asked to see the new place. He sent an email making sure you’d gotten settled, waited a week, then sent this one.

To his credit, he hadn’t offered to help you search for a place, or if you needed help moving in. He hasn’t been pushing at all. As per your wishes he’s giving you space, waiting for you to make up your mind. It’s clear that he’d like nothing more than to do all those things, or just have you move back in. You’ve gotten good at reading between the lines of carefully chosen text.

You’re not ready for that, yet. No, you can’t even decide if you’re going to send the key back to him or try to work through things with him. Moving back in? That’s advancing so far beyond the barriers you’ve yet to hurdle.

Yesterday you’d actually removed the key from the ring and set the thing on the counter, determined that you would rid yourself of it, and of _him_. It had been a particularly bad day at work. Three weeks hence and still you catch some of your coworkers giving you prolonged looks as you walk by, whispering in hushed tones. 

Truthfully, though you’re loathe to admit it, it will probably never change. Years from now when you’ve moved on to someplace new, just when you think it is all behind you, someone will undoubtedly get that look of recognition in their eye and ask - “ _Wait… wasn’t that you?_ ” – and then you’ll be right back here again, reliving it all.

For now you find ways to stomach the knowing looks. At least they’ve the decency now to murmur their sniggered comments. In the first few days post-incident, they hadn’t even bothered to lower their voices.

How exactly you managed to survive the first few days back at work you’ll never know.

Wine. Lots and lots of wine.

And Sam putting an end to the zoo-exhibit that was your cubicle.

So yes, yesterday you’d endured enough for one day. You’d stormed into the new place. A massive heave – your full weight against the stubborn door – had been required to grant you access. Goddamn door had been stuck fast even after unlocking it, only adding to the pains of the day.

Bare bones rooms greeted you. You found yourself missing _home_ – missing _him._

The drink hadn’t even put a dent in your frustrations.

Anyway, attempting to drown your sorrows is no way to cope. Wine glass then pushed aside you’d fumed at the soreness to your shoulder. If you hadn’t had to move, your shoulder wouldn’t be throbbing – if Tom hadn’t thrown you out you wouldn’t be trying to force yourself to ignore your heart.

No, it was unfair to focus solely on his actions.

If you’d refused to bend to his anger, if you’d had more of a backbone in the face of his wrath.

You’d had nothing to prepare for the stream of words against your profession.

But he had kept his opinions, those necessary details from his past, quiet. He hadn’t shown you trust. He _should have_ shown you trust. If he kept that secret what else had he kept from you? Secrets only weaken relationships.

On and on you spiral.

If you hadn’t kept the photos on your phone. If you’d chosen a different profession.

If – if – if.

You continue to list out points against the both of you. There were so many things to consider. Somehow you always ended up with the same final thought: you had stuck your nose up at fate when you chose to date a celebrity.

If you end it now there will be no more subjecting yourself to the scrutiny of life in the public eye. You’ll once again be the one behind the camera, behind the words, behind the story. You’re certainly done with the lack of privacy. What would it be like to be just another face in the crowd again?

If you could only stop loving him.

Today is another day. The key is no longer on the countertop, but in your pocket. In your mind it has become the signifier of the future of your relationship with Tom – if you keep it you’re telling him that you’re going to stick around – if you don’t… if you send it back to him…

Well, he deserves more than that. The least you can do is hand it to him, no matter how painful that might prove.

You look back down at the tablet and force the words back into focus.

________,  
I hope this week is better than the last. _

He probably wrote that out a million different ways before settling on that phrasing. “Hope this finds you well, darling. Aaaand we’re backspacing that out. I sound like a tit. Hope you’re ok? No again. Too informal. Fuck! Hiddleston this shouldn’t be this hard.”

_And thanks for responding to my email last week._

“Many thanks for not ignoring my attempt at reaching out to you….  Many thanks… I sound like a snob. Thank you for not ignoring me on all fronts. No, she’ll just send me an email with one word written in huge font. ASS. Delete. Delete. Delete.” He’d probably started running his fingers through his hair at this point, if he hadn’t been doing so already. “Please come home. At least just ask for my new number. Please offer yours. Please stop being the stubborn woman I’m – I’m … begging… No. Backspace, and let’s start again...”

Ok – he probably hadn’t said all of that. And then, he’d evidently grown so frustrated he’d given up on any pretense.

_My reason for writing now is this: Some sort of statement needs to be made regarding your coworker’s actions. I’ve used the excuse of work to delay as long as possible, but... If you’re not opposed to such a thing, I’d prefer we issue a joint statement [see attached]._

You click to reply to his email but find yourself unable to think of anything to say past the greeting.

_Tom,_

The cursor sits on the next line, blinking at you. A joint statement. Are you opposed to such a thing? The invasion of privacy concerned you both. Sure, they were mostly pictures of Tom that had been sent out but there were a few of you that had been included as well. Both of you had been facing the consequences of previously unlisted numbers being made public knowledge. Again, Tom more so, but still.

He’d issued a generic something immediately after the incident. You’d learned that much care of your coworkers. You, as of yet, have been unable to stomach issuing any such acknowledgement of the act. Maybe he knew, maybe he’s been keeping an eye out for your statement, and finding none took it upon himself to...

_See attached._

You set your tablet aside, leaving the attachment unopened. Maybe you’ll have the courage to open it later tonight. Or maybe, maybe you should stop avoiding facing the issue. You should stop hiding behind emails. Stop providing Tom with as little information as possible. Every day you delay making a decision about the key is another day you’re torturing the both of you.

Make a decision. Stick to it.

Tomorrow.

You stand and stretch, leaving the tablet where you’d tossed it aside. You wander around the kitchen, absently opening and closing drawers and cabinets. Not hungry even after a long day at work, you’re looking past the few things contained within the essentially bare cabinetry. It’s an attempt to distract yourself – and it’s not really working. You open the refrigerator door and sigh at the cool blast of air that washes over your skin.

Beer. An apple. All the take out boxes that have accumulated through ordering dinner every night and forgetting that you should just be ordering for one. Tom isn’t here to wolf down the remainders.

Then your tablet chimes, pulling your attention from the fluorescent lighting within the cold environment. Back melancholy, back. Maybe it’s Sam with a late notification for an assignment? Maybe… maybe that’s wishful thinking.

Message.

From Tom.

 _Please respond_ – the subject line reads, and then the body of the message – _I saw that you read the email. We **need** to talk. Did you open the attachment?_

“No, no I didn’t.” Why did you say that aloud? He can’t hear you. And anyway, you’d started to respond…. The draft is still open in your tabs. **Need** to talk, he says. Ok – hiding out and refusing to talk to anybody about the incident, not even releasing a statement through Sam – it’s not doing any good.

You’re in stasis. Time to move forward. Or backward. Whatever direction you choose when you get there. Just… move.

You click back into the draft and type two more letters before pressing send.

_Tom,  
Ok. _

Before you can second guess yourself you set your tablet down on the countertop and head for the door. It chimes again as you heave the door shut and secure the bolt. Probably a follow-up from Tom in response to your cryptic message. He’ll see you face to face soon enough.

“Patience Monsieur Hiddleston. Patience.”

The drive over gives you plenty time to plan. A united stand against the invasion of privacy is a good idea. It doesn’t matter if you are or aren’t in a relationship – both of you are affected. The real question is, are you going to give him back his key tonight? It’s in your pocket. You certainly could.

You still haven’t decided as you walk up towards the door. The familiar path, illuminated by moonlight and the evenly spaced lanterns, isn’t nearly long enough to provide adequate time to make the final decision. Sticking your hand into your pocket you press the pads of your fingertips against the small piece of metal in question. Then the pathway is bathed in light.

Tom’s silhouette fills the doorway. “_______.”

You stop, standing in the square of light spilling from within the house but still a few steps shy of the welcome mat. “Hey.” You’re at a tremendous disadvantage. You can’t see his face in the contrast. Hand still within your pocket, you tip the key into your palm and squeeze once, then let it drop back into the lining of your pocket again.

The silence extends.

“So,” you shift from one foot to the other, trying to maneuver so that you can see his expression in the shadows, “a joint statement.”

Tom takes a moment to reply, “You want to – do this in the doorway…”

The catch in his sentence, and overall delivery, makes your heart rail against your head. _You’re_ the reason he sounds like that. _You. You_ did this. No. _He_ did. _His_ anger. _His_ temper. No. Enough of that. Move on. Move forward. Not back.

You shake your head, “No.”

He steps back into the entryway, the light finally spilling onto his features. He motions you in with a wave of his hand, “Please. Um… Kitchen? Living room?” He pauses a moment before adding an afterthought, “Have you eaten?”

He’s trying to play host – awkwardly. You bypass the kitchen, leading the way into the living room. No you haven’t eaten but food is not why you’re here. You are caught noting little details about the room, things just slightly out of place. Books that have been moved, thing that are absent, things that have changed. Then he hurries around you towards the sofa. The cushions are askew and the blanket is strewn across part of the length. He quickly tidies the area before motioning for you to sit.

It smells heavily of him. Has he been sleeping out here?

Your heart lurches.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tom has been patient, allowing the space you requested while you think things through. He owes you that much after throwing you out. And now you owe him an answer: can you forgive him for losing his temper? Are you going to give him another chance?_

Back in the place you once called your home. You take the time to study the man you used to think you knew. He looks tired, worn at the edges. How much of that is projection tied to the fact that you yourself haven’t been sleeping well?

You take in the condition of the cushions, the blanket that he’s hurrying to resettle over the armrest farthest from you, the heavy scent of sleep – and him – that greets you as you sit down. If he’s been sleeping on the sofa rather than in the bedroom… Why? This is his house. His _home._ Why wouldn’t he opt for the comfort of his bed?

Guilt, perhaps, over your absence. Well that had been his doing. You push aside the flare of anger, annoyed with yourself and the circumstance. It is also irritation over your still aching shoulder. It wouldn’t have to be this way if – no. No more of that.

No more.

Tom fidgets, straightening a paper or two on the coffee table that sits so close to his knees, then runs his hands over his pants legs. He never has been able to sit still, especially not when stressed.

The both of you speak at once. Your utterance of his name is drowned out by his stream of words. “I know you asked for time but, well, I’m not asking for you to make a decision about us. I’m not pushing, really…”

He may be denying any such thing verbally but his face is conveying the exact opposite of his words. His expression is earnest, his eyes are pleading. You can hear his voice in your head: _Please stop shutting me out. Please forgive me._

You need to stop this cruel extended silence and allow healing to occur. This isn’t healthy, for either of you.

Tom rambles on, flailing his hands about as he speaks. “Look you can’t keep ignoring the fact that one of your, your,” You almost speak up to help him through the stumble of his words but he gives a short frustrated shake of his head and is able to move on, “your _coworkers_ released everything – our numbers… those photos…” Another shake of his head moves him past mentioning the event, “Ignoring it doesn’t solve the problem.”

He thinks you haven’t even tried? You bite down the bile that threatens to surge up your throat. Even thinking about writing out the statement nets such a reaction.

“I know – I know that.” You have to say it twice, the first time the words get stuck. “I just feel sick every time I attempt to write something out.” You pause to swallow before adding to your statement, your misery of being a writer who _cannot write_ forcing you to mumble, “Sam has offered to draft something for me, if I want…”

“Oh.” Tom flashes a look of surprise, then confusion, then lets his face fall into neutral. He’s processing your words and keeping his thoughts hidden. He did that when you first met him, sometimes. Never since. Until now. You had been the young journalist cautiously returning the flirtations of a man who could make a brick wall swoon.

That reaction prompts further explanation from your lips, “I haven’t – obviously – taken him up on the offer. I think, depending on the wording of the joint statement… We’ve both experienced quite the fallout. It makes sense.”

This time the look of confusion stays in place. “Depending on the wording? But… You… The attachment? Haven’t you read it over? What I sent you?”

No. You shake your head in the negative, now curious as to what he’d sent you.

Had he spent night after night slaving away on the document that you’d been too afraid, stubborn… _something_ to download and open? He didn’t have time for such a thing… No.

Maybe he’d had a sea of lawyers hammer out a few variations and then sent the lot to you for examination. That’s a bit unfair of you to think that of him – utilizing a sea of lawyers isn’t Tom’s style – though you probably aren’t wrong about the multiple iterations of the statement. It’s really the only thing you can think of to explain the fact that it was a zip file attached to the email rather than a single document.

“But… I got the notification that you opened the email.” Everything you’re telling him doesn’t seem to be helping him work through whatever problem of logic he is facing.

You nod, the beginnings of a frown are creasing the spot between your eyebrows as Tom continues to stop and stutter through his thoughts. “Yes. But I didn’t open the attachment. I started to reply but couldn’t figure out what I wanted to say. I was still processing, I _am_ still processing.”

Tom’s eyes drift back and forth between yours as you speak as though he’s searching out any hidden meaning, any fragment of falsehood in your statement. Why would you lie about such a thing?

For the first time since seating himself on the sofa with you he angles his body forward, turning himself away from you and settling against the cushions with a soft _whump._ “So you came over here without reading any of it.”

Why? Why is that important? So you hadn’t opened the attachment - what had you missed? What else had that message contained beyond the desire to see you? That message had been clear enough in the body of the text. And why does he sound so dejected by the idea that something within his email remains unknown to you? You’re here aren’t you…

“I did.” You almost reach out to touch him and draw his gaze back to you but you don’t. Feeling the pain radiating off him via mere proximity is enough. More than enough. You to leave him be and start to compile a list of possibilities in your head as to what the attachment might contain.

What had he said? What had been written other than a joint statement? It’s obviously something else… Examples of individual statements if you didn’t like the joint one? That was reasonable enough to assume…. Even though he’s already issued an individual statement of his own. Unless he’s expanding upon the original statement.

Maybe though, maybe he’d grown frustrated by your inaction… Had he railed against you? Threatened action against Sam for taking so long in taking action in the matter? Against the whole company? Against you?

No. That didn’t fit his behavior when you first walked up the path – not that you could see his face but the way the door had sprung open, how he’d taken the few steps out of the house as though to meet you. 

He’d been watching, waiting. The sun had still been up when you sent the reply, had time to set through your drive and had been down prior to your arrival at his place. Your response hadn’t given him any clue to your attitude. A simple – _ok_ – as reply.

It is no wonder he looks as worn as he does. While you had been driving he’d probably been pacing from window to window, watching every movement of the outside world for signs of you.

It will be the first thing you do the moment you have your tablet in your hands again, open the email once more and read every last line of….  

“Didn’t read a word of it.” He shakes his head slowly while examining the palms of his hands. He takes a long breath, seeming pained to let further words escape him, “Then, are you here to leave me?”

Your thoughts drift to the key in your pocket, now stabbing you in the thigh as you sit turned towards him at such an odd angle. If this had all happened yesterday, if you had been having this conversation with him after the day you'd had, the answer would have been yes. Yes without a second thought.

And now?

You’re still nowhere near forgiving him but…

Your reply comes at a near whisper, “No.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’d gotten you here, willing to talk to him face to face, by insisting on a press release. Whatever else may result that is something that needs to be handled. You certainly hadn’t driven all this way just to leave him but that doesn’t mean the possibility is off the table, not yet. After all, he’d thrown you out without batting an eye._

“No.” This time when you respond in the negative your voice is stronger. No the reason you’re here is not to leave him, despite the fact that it would be the smart thing to do. After all, what assurances did you have that Tom wouldn’t lose his temper with you again and hurl something more wounding than cutting words and clothes?

You shift in your seat to try to maneuver the key in your pocket so it isn’t pressing uncomfortably into your leg anymore. It doesn’t work, but that’s alright – the key is a good reminder that just yesterday you had been ready to cut Tom out of your life, despite how your heart is currently reacting.

You love him. You love him…. You can love him and still leave him. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

It had been a spur of the moment decision in response to his emailed plea to see you, a moment of determination – or bravery, or stupidity – that had resulted in you heaving the door to your new place shut behind you.  You were able to cobble together some small semblance of a plan as you drove… The intention was to discuss the press release regarding _the event_ , and maybe find a way to make up your mind regarding your future in the process.

And then he’d jerked the door open. All it took was him saying your name and - _poof_ \- you’d been left standing there awkwardly on the walk. Whatever plan you had started to cobble together had evaporated the moment your name left his lips.

Tom’s tone is cautious, yet hopeful. “No? But you stopped – paused – out on the stoop…” He lifts his hand to reach over and touch you. You move your arm away from his reach just a fraction, just enough to make him hesitate and then drop his hand back down into his lap.

“I stopped because my head was screaming not to make the same mistake over again. I stopped because I love you, still, and I don’t know what to make of that. I stopped because I want – I _need_ something that proves that I can trust you with my heart again.”

You are just being honest with him, but perhaps the fact that you’re not sure if you can trust him is a bit too much honesty for the moment. Tom seems a little taken aback. What had he expected you to say – that you had merely stumbled upon the pavement?

And then he stands and walks from the room.

Should you follow him? Should you sit and wait to see if he comes back? You’re up and on your feet before you can second guess yourself into a tizzy. “Tom? What are you doing? Where are you going?” There had only been a slight delay between when his long strides had carried him from the room and when you had popped up off the sofa in pursuit. You find him in his office leaning over the back of the desk to detach the power cord from his laptop and pluck the computer up off the surface. 

“Getting your proof.”

“What?”

He points to the chair by the bookshelf - your chair, still unmoved from the spot where you’d last positioned it so you could watch him work at his desk - and says, “Sit. My email. Read it, please. _All_ of it.” He remains by his desk as you settle into the chair. He’s holding the laptop with one hand and tapping out the keystrokes with his other as you look on. He then spins the laptop in his hands and pushes it into your lap. You watch him retreat back until he settles against the desk again before you drop your eyes to the computer screen. The wording of his email is exactly the same.

________,  
I hope this week is better than the last. And thanks for responding to my email last week. My reason for writing now is this…._

You skip down, noting that Tom has highlighted the words: _[see attached]_ and clicked to open the files. You were right in your assumption that there would be more than one iteration of the proposed press release. He has them labeled, _joint_ vs _individual_. That’s not what is making your hand shake as you try to control the touch-sensitive mouse pad.

There are dozens of other files also contained in the attachment.

Dozens.

The first one in the list is labeled simply: _Apology_ , and dated to have been created in the days after he threw you out.

_I hope you’ll let me say these words to you before it’s too late. I pray it isn’t too late, already. That you’ll hear me. That you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me._   
_I am deserving of every last ounce of hate you can muster. Instead of allowing our home to be a safe haven I turned it into a battleground.  
To my mind it is still that, **ours** , even if it is just my name on the deed. Your presence here extends further than merely a picture on the wall and clothing in the closets – clothes that I foolishly flung…_

Your shaking fingers cause the attachment folder to maximize on the screen again, blocking out the rest of the words. There are more, so many more. Do you dare try to read anything further? Can your heart survive it? You’d asked for this. You’d asked for proof…

You drag your eyes up from the screen, expecting to find that Tom’s attention has wavered to.... Well, you have possession of his laptop but perhaps to his new phone or on to occupy his time with some form of paperwork related back to work – but no. He’s watching your reactions as though his life depends on it.

“Tom,” your voice rasps in your throat, forcing you to swallow to clear it before continuing. You need him to stop staring at you so intently – some small bit of privacy while you read is needed… “Can I – I’m reading them. I’ll read them, but, if the offer still stands – tea?”

He seems uncertain for a moment, unwilling to leave your company. He does stand and nod to you, though, after a slight delay. He doesn’t have to ask your preferences. He knows your tastes. The moment he leaves the room you exhale and press the palms of your hands to your face -- they feel cold, clammy, pressed against the heat radiating from your cheeks.

You’d asked for this. You wanted proof of his devotion. Well, you’re getting what you wanted – in the form of words. Words, words, and more words. You either have the room to yourself for the duration of the kettle coming to boil or he’ll reappear after popping it atop the stove. You shift one hand to rest and follow the contour of your face, your fingertips resting on level with your temple, the length of fingers crossing over the ridge of your cheekbone, your palm cupping your jaw. The coolness of your hand helps you to maintain your hold over the emotions that are determined to overwhelm you.  

You click on to the next document, created a few days later.

_I miss you._   
_I miss your indecision in the mornings as you stare at your wardrobe, trying to decide the outfit needed to attack the day._   
_I miss looking up from my work to find you biting your lip as you consider the inner-workings of the article you’re absorbed in writing. And finding pens and pencils in odd places, tucked away between sofa cushions after being used to scribble down the spur of the moment words or resting on the edge of the bookshelf - somehow, because of your influence, defying the laws of physics._   
_I miss rushing home, keen to try to surprise you with an attempt at a recipe I’d discovered and thought you might like. And the barely concealed triumph when you voiced your glee over finding me frantically trying to salvage a scorched meal._   
_I miss walking in the door to find your coat in its place on the rack and knowing I’d soon have you wrapped in my arms._   
_If I could think of where you might be, if I just knew where to go to plead my case…_

Taking a shallow breath, all that your chest will currently allow, you click to open and move on to another document. You don’t even pay attention to the titles this time, just click to select one from the list at random.

_My actions haunt me. I relive the moments daily, if not with more frequency than that. I wish it were but a nightmare. The logic behind my reaction is unfathomable now. In the span of a few hours I had worked myself to a point that I doubted every moment we’d ever spent together. That I ever could have doubted that beautiful mind, those piercing eyes, all the little details that had accumulated between us. I credited it all as a playact, aimed at delivering a devastating blow to my ego for the selfish gain of notoriety in a story._   
_It is surprisingly easy to convince yourself of such things when you’ve lost all bearing. I thought back to our first meeting and your hesitance. Charming as it was at the time, that day I found new meaning behind the memories of your actions. I feared your coyness had been a tool used to lure me in. The worse the day became, the more weight I found favoring the argument that it had all been a sham. I found new meaning in words uttered in private. I convinced myself there to be sinister implication behind every choice, every action, and every glance that had passed between us._   
_All I can wonder now is how? How did I logically link the events to a betrayal from the woman I love? And how still did I think that banishing you would do anything but cause the delivered wound to my person to fester and grow._   
_Now, in my solitude, I seek the comfort of the one person who will, it seems, never again offer her warmth._

Tears are escaping against your will. Some merely trickle down your cheeks, others are captured in a path to trail down the side of your hand, dripping until meeting with your sleeve that has been pushed into a bunching of fabric at your elbow.

He hadn’t thrown you out because he didn’t care for you – rather he’d thrown you out because he found that he cared far more than he ever expected to.

The shrill of the kettle jerks a full sob from your lips and you look up to find Tom standing in the doorway. Up until the whistle of the kettle jerked the both of you into motion it is clear that he’d been leaning against the doorframe, watching you scan the documents. The way you’d been holding your hand had kept you from being able to see him and also served to shield your face from his view.

Just how long had he been standing there? You try to wipe away the tears that are now fully visible to him.

He ignores the whine of the kettle, instead crossing the room and kneeling down before you, pulling the laptop from your lap while you desperately try to regain control. “Darling,” his hands drift to your face to help wipe away the wet from your cheeks which only serves to renew your waterworks. His efforts are hampered by your own, your fingers bumbling into his. “Darling I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Shhh.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tom had thrown you out after the theft of intimate photos shared between the two of you. In so doing he had broken your heart and left you to face the guilt over the publication on your own. More harsh words exchanged, and many apologies later Tom had shattered you again, but this time with drafted reassurances of his devotion._

“I’m an ass.”

Your favorite word for him throughout this ordeal. It pulls a choked laugh from your chest – because he’s not, not really. He’s allowed your heartbroken and angry image of him color his own opinions of himself. He has his moments of asshole behavior, but he’s not an ass.

“I am a complete and utter ass, darling. Will you forgive me?” Tom asks, still kneeling before you.

If you could manage to see him more clearly through your persistent tears, you’d probably find him crying, too. You can hear it in his voice, the waver of emotion. You’re still trying to clear your face of emotional debris, your efforts hampered by the fool of a man stationed at your knees. He finally rests his hands atop your thighs to allow you to compose yourself on your own. He could have caved – sent the letters to your email as soon as he’d written them and put an end to the month and change long torture session.

Snot, the sudden urge your throat has to close completely, and sobs for breath stutter your reply. “I thought – that you didn’t love me.”

He’s already pulled his laptop from your lap so it’s a simple thing for him to scoop you forward from the way you’ve wedged yourself into your chair, nestling you into his arms. You go from having yourself pressed into the security of the chair to being pulled into a standing position a few steps back towards the hallway. With the both of you standing again you feel unsteady on your feet, but he seems to find sure footing.

“I gave you every reason to doubt me.” He shuffles his feet farther apart to adjust his height to more evenly match yours, meanwhile he uses one of his hands to tilt your head so your eyes meet with his.

Yes. Yes, he had. There had been no hesitation in the stream of his anger. From the moment he had walked in the door that day to the moment he had kicked you out -- apparently it was only hours later, sitting in the silence amongst the strewn clothes, that he had been able to process and regret the actions he'd undertaken.

Through salt tipped lashes you observe the sincerity coupled with his words. He doesn’t say the phrase again, remembering your objections, but you can feel the sentiment in the way he’s holding you – see it held within those baby blues. _Sorry. I’m so very sorry._

He has you captured within his arms to prevent you from toppling, or back away, back into the confines of the chair he pulled you from. Tom tilts his head down to press his lips into yours, a soft kiss the likes of which you’ve missed in the time you’ve spent apart. It used to be an assured thing, a gentle peck delivered in the morning, the happy greeting upon walking in the door after work, a token of affection whenever the moment struck him.

When his lips finally leave yours, breaking the caress, he leaves you breathless. He, however, isn’t yet at a loss for words. “Do you doubt me, now?”

 _No, Tom. Assuredly no. Most unreser_ vé _dly, no._ Unable to find your voice, you shake your head and pull him back against you again, your actions more telling than any words you might be able to summon.

And still the kettle whines on.

\--

You’ve been tense all morning and most of the afternoon, to the point that you’re sure that not even a long soak in the tub when you get home will help to relieve the ache of your muscles. The tub is the one thing that sold you on the apartment, the oversized porcelain thing more than making up for the stubborn front door.

Funny how being on the opposite side of the glaring lights, the microphones, the questions, makes you nervous. You’d much rather be scribbling notes to yourself while pressed shoulder to shoulder with others doing the same, waiting for the battle of who-can-get-their-question-heard-and-answered.

Tom looks apprehensive too, but most of that is probably transference from you. You’ve both agreed to let him read through the planned statement for today. Still, five weeks from _the event_ , the topic makes you feel sick… and though the idea of leaving time at the end for questions furthers that nausea, you’ve both agreed to that as well.

“I’ll answer everything, if you want.” Tom offers, swirling the remnants of his tea around in the little porcelain mug in his hands. Your matching mug sits on a nearby table, still mostly full. In his hands, the pristine white cup seems tiny.

You shake your head. “No. That’ll fuel their speculation if I remain silent.”

He shifts his torso, the wiggle of his body joining the shrug of his shoulders, “So let them speculate.”

Another shake of your head. “We’re here to put an end to that, not fuel it. Trust me. If I remain silent… I can manage whatever they can dredge up in the allotted 15 minutes.”

“Alright, ma petite journaliste. I fall to your judgment.”

He’s been working on it – referring to your profession without having the sneer of disgust alter his words. If translating the words into another language helps him deal, by all means… You’re still unsure of your profession yourself. It might soon be time for a change. Sam has been a God-send through it all, but most of the rest of the staff? Not so much.

Despite his efforts to realign his thoughts regarding your job, Tom would probably jump for joy if you decided to quit. Sam, hopefully, will be understanding… _Would,_ would be understanding. Your slip says it all – somewhere deep down you’ve already decided that quitting is the route you’re going to take.

 “Tom… I think…”

“What, darling? Having doubts?” The frown line between his eyebrows deepens. “We can cancel the interview session...”

You perch in your chair to lean across the armrests to touch him, rubbing your hand over his knee before his fingers can snag it and bring your knuckles to his lips. “No, Tom. That’s not it. We’re doing this. We need to do this.” You pause when more people push their way into the room.

They’re ready for you.

“We’ll talk about it after.”

He’s not happy with that response. He keeps glancing between you and those giving instructions, attempting to hide his frown. You try comforting him by taking his hand and giving it a light squeeze, as much good as it does.

_Don’t mess with the microphones._

Again you feel a pang on longing to be on the _other_ side of the tables.

_Everything is queued up. We have glasses and a pitcher of water provided if you need it._

You should have done a better job containing your nervous energy. How will it look on camera, the both of you fidgeting? You leave your mug where it sits on the countertop but Tom carries his with him, either too distracted by your started conversation or the impending ordeal. You give his arm a gentle tug, trying to point it out, but then it’s too late, you’re both already visible to the sea of people gathered. No turning about now, just get this over with.

As soon as you’re seated you reach for the empty glass and Tom is there with the pitcher. You grace him a little smile in thanks, the pitcher held in one hand of his hands as he pours the water for you, his porcelain mug still in the other. Of course adjustments are in order before the session can get underway. The glasses, pitcher, and now mug need to be moved to the edges of the shot, if not removed entirely. Once everyone and everything is settled into their designated spots the fidgeting begins.

Tom probably has the prepared statement committed to memory at this point. No telling how many times he read it through before it became part of the list of attachments in the email that ultimately won you back – or how many times he read it after.

The table offers a small bit of privacy, blocking your lower half from view. Tom is restlessly tapping the fingertips of his right hand over the top of his leg while his left hand remains motionless next to the paperwork he isn’t quite staring at. To still his movements you pull his right hand into your lap, using both of your own to hold it down on your thigh.

Certain keywords stick out in your mind – _breach of trust_ – _violation of privacy –_ along with, not explanations but condemnations of the one who hacked your phone. _These were moments shared between two individuals in a fully committed relationship. Stolen._

You focus less on the words and more on the reactions of those in the room consuming them. They look _mostly_ attentive. Some even look sympathetic. It’s a start.

The goal today? Well, getting the images back would be ideal but that isn’t practical. They’re out there now. Nothing to do about that but move on… But if one person, even one person is convinced not to click that little button to view the content…

When it’s time to engage with the gaggle of eyes staring at the pair of you through the blinding lights you stare out at them with apprehension. Are they going to play nice? Are they going to try to get a rise out of the pair of you…

Your immediate reactions to the incident? You find yourself critiquing the questions proffered. _No,_ you mentally scold, _simplistic. Obvious._ “We were outraged.” You feel Tom’s fingers twitch over your thigh muscle and inch your palm over the back of his hand in response. You’ve got this one. He can handle the next. “It was an incredible shock.”

“Since it has now come out that it was a coworker of yours that did it?” The same voice pipes up.

_Leading. And again, obvious. Might as well CC everybody present with a copy of the planned article._

Again Tom’s hand twitches on your leg. You really need to tell him about your decision to leave the magazine. “Yes. It just proves that despite seeing someone every day at work you might not _really_ know the strength of their character.”

Tom fields a few, and you jointly answer one or two. The whole session seems to be winding down nicely until the time crunch starts to press upon everyone. And then comes the question that sends the whole event spiraling.

“Are things less playful in the bedroom now? Considering the incident and the fact that you’re now living apart?”

What. The. Fuck.

You’re in shock at the utter gall of the person. Tom? Tom is livid. If it weren’t for your firm grasp of his hand he might have rocketed up out of his chair. The tone emanating from him when he speaks is the exact one he used with you that day – the only difference being that he isn’t yelling. His quiet rage, to your mind, is almost worse.

“As we stated a mere half an hour ago, and considering that a vicious violation of our privacy is the whole _reason_ we’re here today, perhaps you should have more carefully considered the wisdom of your question.” Tom’s answer is far wordier – and could have bordered on polite if it hadn’t been for the unsettling delivery – than anything that you might have given in response if you hadn’t been rendered mute.

The refusal to turn the cameras to capture the individual does nothing to prevent the follow up question from being asked, further provoking the seething man sitting by your side. “Is that a yes, Tom?”

“Next question. Wrapping up. Next question.” They’ve finally gotten the mic and are trying to restore civility and calm to the room.

Tom turns to you, clearly done with the whole experience, “Ready to go? We can go if you want.” Though tempting, this is no way to end this televised event. You shake your head, prompting him to exhale slowly. He reaches with his left hand to press it overtop where you have his right ensnared in your lap. He murmurs quietly to you, trying to keep his voice down and prevent his comment from being caught by the nearby microphone. “Sorry, darling. This has turned into a bit of a nightmare.”

“Yes.” You’ve found your voice again, or had it shocked back into you by Tom’s defensive outburst. “But it was going fine before, Tom. We can redirect it.”

The pair of you do your best to return to the civil responses you had been giving prior to the disruption. Finally, the session comes to a close. You stare out at the gathered crowd of fellow journalists who seem to refuse to disperse -- all so eager for any additional sound bites your or Tom might offer. The planned moment is over, the bright lights required for the cameras now being turned off, one by one, but still there are stragglers determined to wait you out. They probably will linger long after you and Tom have left the building, just on the off chance something else might occur.

No matter. Ordeal survived.

You stay close to Tom’s side, not quite leaning on him but enjoying the warmth the close proximity to his body offers as the pair of you walk towards the chauffer and car that is waiting to ferry you away. Walking is helping with your nerves, but the muscles in your back remain tense.

Home. That’s the only place you want to be right now.

“Stay for dinner?” Tom hasn’t quite extracted himself from the backseat of the car, his car keys already in his hand. He’d driven over to your place this morning, the pair of you agreeing that arriving together would be best.

He straightens and smiles at you, taking a step or two away from the chauffer’s vehicle. “Dinner, dessert… I’ll stay as long as you like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably an epilogue to follow... if my writing addiction doesn't get the best of me and spawn more chapters...


End file.
